


Blue Danube

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean wants so much. Orlando gives what he can. And what Orlando gives leads to a new beginning for Sean and Lij. Future fic, AU, set in Vienna.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"It's called _Blue Danube_? And you're directing?"

_He'll never lose that lilt,_ I thought. The soft, well educated British intonation, as creamy as the chocolate of his eyes, sounded like home to me, which was so weird. Because I've been in L.A. so long, speaking flat, slippery Hollywood and the false cheerfulness of the movie business. But the feeling of home, of course, still means New Zealand and that melange of accents of the Queen's English, from Peter's real Kiwi to Ian's Stratford stage voice. Those accents, that music, means home. And how Orlando could always put his real, actual, electric smile straight into his voice was beyond me.

"Yes, I'm directing. And the reason I immediately thought of you for this role of Czermak is that it's an anti-hero."

"About time for me to leave my heroic mold and show my innate villainy, y'think?"

"Exactly. Range. And we could both use a change of scenery right about now, too."

"I know I could."

The line was silent. I thought of the electrons pouring through black space, L.A. to orbit to London, creating the connection between us.

"A period piece, you say?"

"Postwar. You know the Russian Communists controlled Austria until 1951."

A few more seconds of silence. "I'll come."

"Wonderful. That's wonderful. Tristar will pick up the tab; I just want to show you some locations and the script and see if it's right for you."

Orlando chuckled. "Translation: Let's get together. It's been too long. On their dime."

"Did I say that?"

~~~~

I kept my hands in the pants pockets of the white suit, waiting patiently for the knot of fawning girls to wander away, clutching their napkins and their boarding pass covers and their sketch pads, newly autographed. _Bitte sehr,_ Orli said, over and over. I wondered how much German he actually knew. Orli had come alone, without handlers. He was wearing threadbare jeans and something I categorized under Pirate Shirt, along with his trademark tangle of pendants. Yellow aviators, clean shaven, medium length hair. Hard to believe it'd been nearly eight years now since we had met in Wellington. He had a well-worn leather bag over one shoulder, leaving his arms free to crush me.

"There you are!" he shouted. The hug made my eyes crinkle. Orlando followed it up with the traditional European double kiss.

_It has been too long,_ I thought. "Christ, it's good to see you," he said.

I took a chance and put my palms over those famous cheekbones, and brought his forehead down to crack against mine. It had never been my thing, back in New Zealand, or after. He and Sala and Viggo had invented the gesture and only they had shared it. _Spontaneous violent love,_ Elijah had described it once.

Uneasy as I felt about it, like I was stealing something that wasn't mine, it wasn't a mistake. He burst into laughter and hugged me again. I felt the plastic of Hollywood peeling off of me. Here was Orli, in the flesh. Here we were in Vienna. It felt like I had escaped, and maybe Orli felt like an escapee, too. It felt like getting your hands in the dirt, like kicking leaves, like running outside from the air conditioning and finding that the day was breezy and cool. I flashed back, as I could never resist even if I wanted to, to the five of us, sitting around under exotic trees, wearing exotic clothes, stretching out and doing exotic fantastic things under strange stars. It might as well have been Rhun or Harad, really. And none of us -- nor Viggo nor Bean either -- had been the same since.

Orlando was telling a story, lip curling in gentle amusement, about one of the girls whose shirt he had just signed. He kept his arm around my waist while we walked down to baggage claim. So, I kept my arm around him, too. It had been at least two years since I had seen Orli other than for two minutes in a crowd on a red carpet. But it seemed no time had passed at all. Feeling sudden relief, stabbing like happiness, I laughed out loud, letting it out at the wrong place in his story.

"What?" Orli paused, off balance.

"Nothing. It's just really good to see you. I'm glad you came. And then her friend said -- what?"

Bags identified, quickly through security and customs, we headed for the taxi. Not a limo. Just the standard issue white Mercedes taxi, one of thousands that inhabited Vienna, just as the yellow ones inhabit New York. It was Tristar's dime, but I preferred a taxi rather than create a cocoon of Los Angeles luxury around us in a limo. I could have afforded a limo now, of course, even if it was my own dime, and not Tristar's, but I really didn't enjoy them. Besides, standard-issue Vienna was plenty luxurious enough.

"Our hotel is right downtown -- the First District, they call it," I said, tipping the porter who had loaded Orli's bags into the trunk of the cab.

"Die Erste Bezirk," rolled off his tongue immediately.

"That's right; have you been practicing, or do you speak German?"

"A little of both. I did some reading about Wien since we talked."

"Me, too. I've never been here before, so I feel like a tourist."

"In a good way."

Belching diesel, the taxi pulled away from the gleaming airport and onto the highway. Orli drank some bottled water that he dragged out of his bag.

He said, "You heard Peter and Fran are seriously writing Legolas into _The Hobbit?"_

"No!"

"It rather works. We meet the whole royal family of Mirkwood."

"Splendid. So you're going... I wish there were a way to get an on-camera role, but Sam wasn't even born yet, and there's no way I could play some other hobbit.

"Well, how about Sam's father?"

"The Gaffer! That could work, you know? Anything would do, really. Any kind of cameo would be worth it. I'm tempted to call Peter up and ask for assistant producer -- hell, for key grip! To have an excuse to go back."

"That's just what Elijah said."

I smiled without speaking. Orlando looked at me, held the glance for a moment, and went on. "Ian's committed, too, to get up in the wizard robes again."

"Fantastic! Now I really am jealous. So, who else could be worked in... Any of the Elves, really. Is Liv interested?"

"I think so."

"Figwit! He could cast Figwit!"

"Don't start." Orli giggled. There was no other word for it.

"Let's see... Aragorn would have been a little kid at the time, so he's out...."

"God, how do you know that?"

"Hey, I studied. You know. I never got over it. You didn't either."

Orlando nodded, and looked out the window of the Mercedes at dreary suburbs passing by. I watched him. I knew that his divorce from Kate had been much more public and much splashier than my divorce, but the official dates of the two events were within a month of each other. I had no idea what the back story was of Orli's divorce, but I did know something of the romance that had led to the wedding. It had been another artifact of that giddy year when the Oscars were handed out for _King._ I had no intention of asking any questions. I just looked at Orli looking out the window.

~~~~

The hotel was majestic and old and within walking distance of the city center and its 12th century cathedral, which sat like a Gothic spider at the center of the web of crooked streets. In the creaking lift, I said, "I wasn't sure quite what you would want, but I got a suite for us. If you would prefer a separate room, I know they're not full."

"No, Christ. I want to see you. We'll catch up. It'll be like old times --"

"Sleeping on the couch at Billy's."

"Or in your case, under the coffee table."

"Not fair. That only happened the one time."

In the room, quiet and white. Again, Orli looking out a window, this time the lace-draped picture window of the main room of the three-room suite. The luggage was unloaded and I tipped the bellman.

I said, "Food? Nap? Stroll?"

Orli turned around to face me and contemplated it, fiddling with his watch on its thick leather band. While he thought, I took off my tie and suit jacket. In the long pause, I looked at him again and turned out my palms, silent question.

"Anything, as long as it's not work yet," he said, finally.

"Work tomorrow. Not now. And the way you look all of a sudden, I'd say, nap."

"How about stroll, resulting in food, resulting in nap." Orli ticked the list off on three fingers.

"Works for me."

~~~~

We said we weren't working yet, but on the stroll across to the Kartnerstrasse and our random search for a restaurant or kellar, I couldn't resist talking about the script and my plans. I was glowing inside, partly from being around Orlando again, partly from a guilty feeling of triumph. He was interested. I might be directing him in a movie -- my old friend, Orlando Bloom, a top of the A-list star. He was biting. I wanted to hook him. It had been my secret wish for a while. The most constructive way I had found yet of responding to the incredible jealousy I had felt for him since his Legolas exploded off the screen. Fame and success had fallen into his lap overnight. Of course he deserved it; of course he was talented and disciplined and just plain nice, as well as being gorgeous -- an enigmatic mix of Ava Gardner and the young Sean Connery, I thought. On the other hand, I had slaved in Hollywood all my career, and yet even the Oscar buzz for Samwise had not led to the kind of roles I wanted. The kind of roles Orli could pick and choose among. So. Directing was better. I had found success, and recognition, too, with that.

_Blue Danube_ would be the perfect vehicle. I could feel that the timing was right, the omens were right. I loved this script, had fallen in love with the book, and was falling in love with Vienna. And I had the money and the backing. The picture would happen, I felt sure of that. But it would be something if it could happen with Orli.

He looked at me as I took off on a discussion of the project, despite our agreement not to work yet. His smile pulled sideways as he looked down. He was so much taller than me; I always forgot that until we were walking. I wondered if he would be pissed that I had brought up work after all, but I couldn't resist. Well, he was smiling and listening. That was all I needed. "It's a period in history that Hollywood really hasn't exploited yet, and the book was quite uncategorizable. No one knew if it was a historical novel masquerading as a love story or a spy novel masquerading as a buddy caper, or what."

"Did your scriptwriter work with the author?"

"No, the author died about six years ago."

"Sometimes that's easier."

"It can be. Though for _Isaac's Storm_ it was great to have the writer's help. It was all very harmonious there... So anyway, here you have the glorious hot fudge sundae that is Vienna, and after the war the place is a black market, full of refugees, crawling with Communists and escaping Nazis and down-on-their-luck Hapsburgs, and it's the Cold War, and it's great. Your veritable hotbed of intrigue."

"And Czermak in the middle of it all."

"I thought of you for this part because he gets the girl, and also because you're never sure through nearly the whole movie if he's a good guy or a bad guy. It's the kind of role Kevin Spacey could have done if he were more handsome and before he became a parody of himself, right?"

"Gets the girl. Yes."

Though his voice was rueful and the pause stretched out, I let it pass. It was too soon -- way too soon -- for me to talk about Christine, and if I brought up Kate I'd end up talking about Christine. And other things that went along with why my marriage was finally over. It wasn't that I didn't want to cry on Orli's shoulder; I could and I probably would, sooner or later on this trip, but not now. Not on Day One. Not before dinner and certainly not sober. But if Orli needed the same kind of sympathy, so much the better. We were still part of the Fellowship, after all. That outweighed everything. Even jealousy.

I caught sight of an old painted sign, and said, "Here's the place the concierge told us about."

The door opened on ancient brick steps, diving into a real kellar that wound under the paving stones of the ancient streets. We found a table in a stuccoed alcove, one wall lined with racks of local wine.

The waiter approached, so old-fashioned in black and white, with an actual sparkling white napkin over his crooked forearm. After an inquiring nod to me, Orli spoke to him in fluent German. He had made light of it, but somewhere along the way he had truly learned the language. I thought of Dom -- a tendril of sadness, quickly put away.

"I asked him to bring us his favorite of the local wine," Orli explained.

"Perfect."

The conversation turned to wine, and to parties where we had drunk wine, and to reminiscing. I looked at him, remembering one day in the hysterical, crazy winter after they had come back from shooting Helm's Deep. He and I and Elijah were drinking with the hobbits in a pub, waiting for the group to gather so we could go have dinner. Viggo came in, and when Orlando had caught sight of him he had leaped up and run to him. It was my first demonstration of the head-butt that I had presumed to use on Orli at the airport. Viggo had started it that day, grabbing Orli and cracking him one. Viggo and Orli were different after their four or so months in hell with Craig and John and Brett and Bernard and the stunt crew. They had achieved something big together and they knew it. It had improved Orli's confidence and his work and it had made Viggo and Orli very close friends. I had always wondered if it had made them more than that, but of course it was none of my business.

Tonight Orli was tired and the food and wine made him sleepy. He revived a little on the stroll home, and we detoured through the bright night to look at St. Stephen's, glowing white in its floodlights after its lengthy restoration. For something so huge and made of stone, it looked graceful; even fragile.

Back in our suite, I was revived too. I couldn't sleep despite all the wine I had drunk. I flipped on the television in the main room, getting hypnotized by the news in Austrian German, with its sibilant music. I had been bathed in the language for three days now, and it was strangely comforting, like being sung to. I heard the shower in Orli's bathroom, off beyond his bedroom.

He came out in black silk pajama pants and nothing else, scuffing his hair with a towel. There was no Legolas left in him at all. Legolas had flawless, peach skin, but Orli's olive skin was marked with tiny odd freckles. With his own lower hairline, his face looked smaller, though that might have been fatigue, too. Since I had first met him, his jaw had squared, his frame had filled out in the corners. His mouth was a tired, faint line tonight, almost white in the soft light.

"If they don't have hot water in heaven, I'm not going," he remarked. I chuckled.

He tossed the towel over the back of a chair and looked at me, folding his arms, his feet apart. The black silk swallowed any light that touched it.

"Your tattoo was on your ankle, right?" he asked, and only waited to see me nod, my throat suddenly dry. He knelt in one fluid movement and stripped off my sock. I had left my shoes by the door. He, by sheer chance, picked the wrong foot, and so he had to strip off my other sock. He held my ankle in his warm hands and turned it toward the lamp. I was still, watching him smile and remember. He traced the tattoo with his fingers, and goosebumps ran up my leg. He squeezed my foot, which felt wonderful, and moved to sit by me. He leaned. He dropped his head on my shoulder.

"I've missed you, hobbit," he said.

"Yeah," I said, not trusting my voice to say more. His hand was on my knee, and I picked it up and he let me turn his wrist and look at his tattoo, the perfect match, of course, for mine. I traced it with my thumb, then carefully put his hand back on my leg. I hesitantly reached up and petted his hair, the way I used to pet Elijah when he was tired. Orli's hair was about the same length as the Frodo wig, but it felt completely different. The texture was much coarser, and it was a much deeper brown. Like his eyes.

We sat there until we dozed off. In the middle night, I got up, disoriented, half standing before I was truly awake, tasting garlic, and found myself alone. I put myself to bed.

~~~~

Day Two. After the mob we had faced at Schonbrunn palace, I got smart and called ahead everywhere we went. I wouldn't make that mistake again. Yes, Orli was A-list.

I snapped shut my mobile after calling us a taxi, and we waited in the office of the subway supervisor. He had left us alone after collecting an autograph for his daughter from Orli, and then one, out of sheer politeness, I'm sure, from me. Orli looked through the glass at the four empty tracks and chewed his lip.

"I'm thinking," he said, "You can't use this subway. It's going to look too modern for 1949."

"Yeah, I was worried about that." The Vienna subway is all gleaming stainless steel and white concrete. It looks like the subway on the International Space Station. It doesn't fit in with the city's baroque excess at all.

"When did they build it? It must have been way after the occupation."

"I haven't checked on that, to tell you the truth. I'll have to rethink that, you're right."

"Could you make it a chase at the railway yard instead? That's better for your period?"

"That's a good idea."

With barely a pause, still looking out the window, he went on, "What made Chris leave you? What happened?"

The blunt question took my breath. My heart rate skipped up, not from fear but from anticipation. To him, I would tell the truth.

"Basically? Elijah and I finally got caught."

Orli met my eyes and sighed, but at that moment the subway guy called us out to our taxi.

After a brief interchange with the driver, Orli leaned back and informed me that we were going to a quiet restaurant that the driver liked. It was on the edge of the Wienerwald. He would call ahead for us, too. It wasn't until we were there, glasses of cool riesling in front of us in a quiet corner booth, that he picked up his thread.

"Kate and I were apart too much. It was too easy to forget why we were together."

Now I could ask. "Was there someone else?"

"There might have been; I didn't ask and neither did she. No..." he stirred, as if the seat were uncomfortable. "It wasn't about someone else. It was about not being able to figure out what I was doing there. Not being able to really understand marriage until it was too late. Because it's not about the romance, yeah?"

"No, not after a while, you're right."

"That wears off." He sat there, looking into his wine. "The romance wears off and that's when the hard part starts; the part where you see if there is anything besides the sex to keep you together."

Romance. Had I had that with Chris? Thinking about that would mean looking back, and I never wanted to do that these days, it seemed. Looking back, for me, meant choosing among several equally unappealing cans of worms. I much preferred being right here, looking around, looking at Orli and his pensive beautiful face, a lock of hair escaping onto his forehead. His long fingers played with the stem of his glass, and he took a drink. I realized I did know something about how to maintain a relationship.

I said, "Staying together is about being friends, mostly, I guess."

He looked up at me. "We didn't fight, Kate and I. It didn't get ugly. But, well, I can't rationalize it." He sighed.

"I'm sorry." It sounded so trite, but what else do you say. He waved a hand in dismissal.

"You and Chris have to see each other, because of the girls."

"It was different with us," I said, because he had shared and so I had to, too. It still hurt to try to find words. "We had worked out the romance thing way before. We got a second wind after Ali was born and everything was fine. Until..." I didn't want to say it again. I looked up at him again and he looked sympathetic and sad and he was nodding. "Anyway, it was my fault. You know. But with Chris -- it's going all right. We have a routine now."

Six months. Six months since the papers had been final, since the last court date was over, since the drudgery of the legal system had finally ground down the sharp edges of the pain. It was only a dull ache now, one I just lived with. Six months since I was officially single. Six months since the final, incontrovertible evidence of how I had fucked up not one but two relationships. I realized I was staring down at the table and I made myself meet Orli's eyes.

He said, intent, "But, forgive me, you and Lij?"

"I --" I discovered I still had tears. I begged them to stay put, to not spill over. "He... well, he never really forgave himself for breaking up my family. That's how he put it to himself, you know. He blamed himself."

Orli looked down. "We all knew you two were crazy for each other... Bad timing, huh."

I picked up my glass and cleared my throat. "Here's to bad timing."

He watched our hands as we gently tapped crystal, and drank.

~~~~

The meal was excellent; the taxi ride home quiet. When we returned to the hotel, Orli asked for another bottle of riesling to be sent up. I was restless. I went to the balcony while he dealt with room service, then wandered back in and took off my jacket and shoes. The suite seemed huge and lonely, shadows chasing each other in the corners. It smelled of old plaster and, more faintly, of bleached sheets and towels. Orli moved so quietly. I was never sure where he was unless I looked. Back in the main room of the suite, I could see that he had poured two glasses. They sat on the coffee table. He was sprawled on the sofa. He had polished off almost a full glass while I was roaming around, and he poured himself another one while I took a sip and sat down next to him. I did not want to think about Chris, or even Kate, really, but I wanted to listen if he had more to say. And I somehow knew he would talk about Kate some more. And he did.

There had been someone else -- more than one someone else. Also he was always traveling. Also she hated London. I had never heard him talk so much about her, about Viggo, about work, about everything. He sat there, elbows on his knees, leaning forward, the empty glass dangling in his two hands. He finally ran out of words. I leaned over into his silence and ran my palm down his back. I was so touched, and yet somehow fiercely proud, that he had talked to me, confided in me. He was drunk; he was far from home; we had never been that close, and in a way that probably made it easier for him to spill it all. I hadn't been in the middle of it, like Viggo had. Funny how you sometimes would talk to someone more easily if they were on the periphery of your problems. Funny how the opportunities to do that came along. Despite my inviting him, I knew how strange this night was. Really, it made no sense that we had arrived here together in this city of the past, obsessed with its bygone glory -- the perfect backdrop for our tales. But I wasn't going to dwell on that. I was going to enjoy it, enjoy getting to be with Orli, to listen to him, to feel the warmth of his skin through the cotton shirt. Then I immediately felt guilty for being capable of enjoying Orlando's suffering over his divorce. I bit my lip. I was still passing my palm up and down his back.

I said, "You haven't talked about this much until now."

He snorted, half a snuffle. His voice was clogged with tears. "Well, to my mum. You know." He turned to me. "Or maybe you don't. Sorry."

"No, no -- my mom and I can talk now. We talk about everything. Probably too much, actually."

"It's nice," he said, "having someone to talk to." He was looking at me with those dark deep eyes, looking carefully as if he had seen something unusual. He leaned forward slowly and molded himself against me. He put his face to my neck. He had to curl up quite a bit to do it. He felt warm and muscular. It was like being snuggled by a panther. It was wonderful. I shifted and turned and put my arms around him.

I said, trying for a light tone and probably failing, "Hey, you know what Lij always said. Friends forever."

We sat there for a few minutes, listening to our breathing slow, and then he put his face up. It was so easy and inevitable. I kissed him and he kissed me back.

~~~~

There was a moment, later, when every voice in my head was silent -- the triumphant voice of the ego. The relieved voice who sized up me, naked and stretched against Orli's lithe nude length, and found me, well, not equal, but adequate. The sad, sad voices who begged for comfort. All it took to drown them all out was Orli's voice, muttering curses, and the sound of his breath, ragged and harsh as I gripped his hips and knelt, leaning over him, pushing my mouth down around his cock. It was very quiet in the hotel room, up above the quiet old city. It was beautiful and still and all there was in my head was the sound of his voice, calling "Sean," as he dug his nails into my shoulders, his hips rising off the sofa.

I gave him a minute, but then I took his hands and pulled on him and made him get up and we staggered to his bed. Held each other, my head against his chest so that I could hear his heart. The way I was lying, close against him, my erection pushed against his thigh. When he revived a bit and his arms came around my back, I smiled and squirmed, getting over him and kissing him, but he shifted his weight and rolled us over again until we were side by side.

I felt his palm smoothing down my ribs and hip and then between us, and I gasped when he took hold of my cock. I stroked his cheekbone with my thumb. I kissed him again, loving it that he would respond, that this would be welcome. His lips were full and warm, the inside of his mouth so hot. The wine lingered, making him taste crisp and sweet. I kissed him until I had to breathe, and I pulled back to look at him. In the half-dark, his eyes were black; no brown at all. "I have lube," I gasped. "I could --" but his hand crept up, fingers gently over my mouth.

"Shh," he said, as his other hand stroked harder. "Okay?" he urged, smiling, and I understood then. I didn't want to be disappointed, but I was. I let myself roll away a bit, on to my back, but he followed me, closing the small gap that separated us, continuing to stroke me. His skin was warm and smooth where he pressed against me from my ribs to my knees. I reached blindly out and found his shoulder and hung on. If this was all I was going to get I would enjoy it, give up to it. I made myself relax, let my legs relax, felt the skilled pull of his hand, felt his breath on my cheek.

"Yeah, that's it. Sweet Sean," he said, and the joy gathered in my belly after all. My eyes were closed, but my mouth wanted to smile. And then in a minute -- surprise! -- he moved down and took me in his mouth.

~~~~

I woke to music. Music that had wandered through my dream; stately strings and horns. I knew the music; in the dream I saw people waltzing. It was Richard Strauss; a recording of the actual _Blue Danube Waltz_.

I was confused. I sat up, jerking at what turned out to be headphones. I could smell the warm scent of tea and milk. There was a cup on the bedside table. I didn't have to look to know I was alone in bed. I reached for the white cup and closed my eyes, drank.

I eased up further, readjusting the headphones, letting the waltz play. I looked around the bedroom. It was empty, but Orli's bags were by the open door to the suite's living room. I pulled one of the headphones away from my ear and heard water running.

Orli came out of the bathroom, dressed. He walked right over to the bed and kissed me. It did nothing to lift the heaviness settled in my chest.

He straightened and looked down at me. A tiny smile curled the corners of his mouth. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. I took off the headphones and looked at what they were attached to. It was his iPod. He gathered it up, taking the headphones from me and coiling the wire, toying with it. Could he be nervous? Not Orli. I searched his face for signs of embarrassment. I wanted to take his hand but I hesitated. Then, _Fuck it,_ I thought, and I reached. He smiled again, and laced our fingers together. We sat there for a minute. He looked fragile, but somehow peaceful. He looked like had slept, but not enough.

"Hey," he said, and our eyes met. "Thank you."

He leaned over and kissed me again, and I kissed him like it was the last time, because, well, it was. He breathed, long and slow. His mouth tasted of toothpaste and tea.

He rested his forehead against mine for a minute and then he got up. He neatly stuffed the iPod in the leather shoulder bag that stood ready on a chair. He straightened, and looked out the window, speaking while his back was turned.

"Have you thought of Elijah for Czermak? It's kind of a ninety degree turn for the role, but maybe you should consider it."

I didn't answer, and finally he turned around, looking expectant, to see if I would. Finally I said, "I'll think about it."

One more time, his voice low and musical, he said, "Thank you, Sean." He picked up his bags, and the door closed softly behind him.

I let my head sink back on the pillows. The music, so familiar, was stuck in my head now, even though Orli had taken the player with him. Sweeping, unhurried measures of Strauss, so beautiful and pure that not even a century of overexposure and bad arrangements could ruin them. The waltz played on. The lace curtains blew in the morning breeze where Orli had opened the window. Vienna smelled like dirt and chocolate and cool sunlight on stone lace. I turned to the bedside table and finished my tea.

end


	2. Vienna Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Orlando's unspoken message, Sean calls Elijah to Vienna. Elijah answers, though he doesn't figure out why for a while.

Vienna Waltz

Sean looks great when I get off the plane, jeans and a black turtleneck, and I'm surprised by the sudden dampness of my palms. Let's not make this a bigger deal than it is, okay? I've known the guy for nearly ten years now; we've worked together before, it's a deal. We can see if we can make a deal. But my heart is pounding. It and my palms clearly know something I don't.

Sean is just standing there, still and waiting, smiling at me. There's this weird moment of hesitation when I am close to him, and I put down my bag. I don't know what the best thing for me to do is, but he is reaching for me, and with a huge sense of relief I reach for him. We can still hug, then. Hugging is good. Hugging is a fucking mountaintop experience. The air rushes out of my lungs and he is _warm,_ and he smells like toast and fallen leaves and old cotton. His sweater is ancient -- in fact I think I remember it -- and it's soft under my hands. We may be letting the hug go on too long, but I am reluctant to look in his eyes. He's got this scruffy business along his jawline; too much to be neglected shaving, not enough to be a real beard. I always loved that look on him. The soft whiskers scratch my cheek.

Without letting go, I pull back, bracing myself for the long fall, and then I take it. Like Orli and Bill going off that bridge. His smile has a few more crinkles and his eyes are green and gold. I lose myself in them for a while, and then I feel his thick hands squeeze my shoulders.

"It's great to see you, Elijah," he says, and he is bending, reaching for my bag. I feel stupid, watching the back of his head, but I let him carry it. It's hard to breathe and I have to work on that for a minute.

We walk down the concourse. I wonder what he's feeling. I am so hung up in my own reactions that I forget to notice. I used to notice everything. It was automatic. I used to be so tuned in to him that I didn't even have to try to read him. I just saw and understood. It was like telepathy. We'll be together for three or four days here in Vienna. That's long enough that I might get my powers back. I watch his shoulders bob along. He is a couple of steps ahead of me.

~~~

It's early and so we take a cab straight to the old city center and sit at a sidewalk cafe, drinking some of the most fantastic coffee I've ever tasted and looking over the script again. We each have a copy. He actually has two; he had brought two in case I had not brought mine. Of course. We talk about the plot and about the character arcs. He is very animated when we talk about Czermak, the enigmatic hero that he wants to hire me to play. The conversation is vintage Sean -- thoughts tumbling over themselves in their rush to get out of his mouth. I lean back into a patch of warm sunshine and enjoy. It's good to see him happy. But I notice that while he's talking about Czermak, a couple of times he starts to say something, but cuts himself off. I know what he's avoiding.

"It's hard to imagine me in this part after thinking of it as Orlando all this time, huh."

He starts, and then he looks guilty. "You heard about that."

"Yeah, I heard you got Tristar to bring him out here. Elaine told me, but I saw him at a thing about three weeks ago, too." Sean is peering at me, and I do recognize this look. Maybe my powers are back already. He's wondering how I really feel about this; he's looking for reassurance. "Hey, it's okay. Who wouldn't be flattered that they were number two behind Orlando Bloom for a part?"

That didn't help.

"Elijah..." His gaze falls to the white linen tablecloth. He plays with the china. He picks up a knife and slices a pat of butter in half. I have munched on the rolls and the crunchy cinnamon things, but he has only drunk coffee. My palms are doing that thing again. All of a sudden I am aware of the enormous backlog of shit we have to deal with and I am appalled at myself for coming. I was looking at this as simply a deal? A great role? Sure I was. Elijah, you fucking simpleton. I knew he was fucking divorced. I knew what I was getting into. And I came. I loaded my cd's and my shiny new copy of "The Vienna Mozart Knew" and my walking boots and I pretended this was a trip like any other and I got on the fucking KLM jet and I came out here. All of a sudden I can't look at him any more than he can look at me. I remember my cigarettes and I fumble for them gratefully. Lighting one sops up some time. Maybe he'll say something after all. He's certainly about to say something, but he's making his little frustrated noises. Then he gets quiet.

"What is it?" I manage through the smoke. I look up, my face back under control. And his is, too. He's looking very professional. It's his director face. I saw a rough draft of it years ago on a rainy street in Wellington and he's got it perfected now. I respond to it; trained instincts of a lifetime. Sean is a director, and the director tells you the mood and you produce it.

"Nothing," he says. "I'm glad you understand about Orlando. It would have been a guaranteed smash for the movie, but hey." He leans forward, willing me to lean in, too. His gaze is warm and sweet now. "He suggested you, actually. He didn't actually come right out and turn it down. He just suggested you."

"Our Orlando. A model of politeness." I smile. I want to ask him if he really wants me for this role or if this is just an excuse to see me again. I wonder if I want to know the answer. So much crap gets in the way of my asking. I tap my ashes into the clear glass ashtray. It really doesn't matter. Thinking about the script will be fun, visiting Eastern Europe again will be fun. It's just a week out of my life; a week I'm not in L.A., a fun thing to do in a new place. No problem. "I'm glad you thought of me, Sean. However it came down." I dare to glance at him, and he is smiling.

~~~

We are walking along the riverfront and Sean is pointing and sketching ideas, describing the escape and the foot chase that is the reversal for the hero and the girl at the midpoint of the movie. He is wondering if they have police boats, like they do in Venice and in San Francisco. That would be cool. Maybe somebody could fall off a bridge.

I watch him, seeing the new crow's feet, the tiny bit of silver at his temples. Stress put all that there. It wasn't there a year ago. Though we have talked on the phone and seen each other at work-related events in Hollywood, this is the first time we've been alone together since I made him drive down to Laguna and meet me so that I could tell him... Now there's a memory I don't want to replay. I light a cigarette.

~~~

I lie in the big sterile suite of the Hilton. I close my eyes against the perfect darkness and there's more perfect darkness. I rub my eyes -- guilty pleasure, no contacts. Like scratching your crotch once you get into the men's room. I listen. I can't hear a thing. Sean is silent, the air conditioning is silent. The building is new and shiny. It doesn't feel like Vienna at all; it doesn't match the old stone city, with fences around the trees and the little flags everywhere and the swaying, stately chestnuts. This hotel could be anywhere. New York. Chicago. Anywhere.

Tonight Sean took me to a hip young place that had a Berlin band on tour. We drank Gosser beer and he asked girls to dance and they did. No one seemed to recognize us, or if they did, they were polite and kept their distance. I wonder where Sean and Orlando had gone when Orlando was here, and if Orlando could go as unnoticed as we are. I doubt it. It's nice; rather a relief to be anonymous. My memories skip around. I think of Prague and the _Illuminated_ shoot. But that makes me think of Emma and that is no fun, either. I open my eyes. Why did I come? A whole day with Sean, a day spent skating around the edges of our past and accomplishing nothing. Fuck.

Abruptly I sit up and turn on the lamp. I squint at the clock. One in the morning; there is no effing way I should want to be awake. The time change and the dancing and the beer should have got me to sleep. It must be the coffee here. High octane. I get up and find the blur that is the chair that has my coat and my cigarettes. I let the smoke trail behind me as I blunder to the fridge and find water. I open the door, thinking vaguely of fresh air, and there is Sean in the main room, standing in front of the television. The blue light dances around the striped walls and white ceiling. He has the sound turned down.

The doors are silent and do not squeak in this new shiny hotel, so I don't think he heard me. He stands there, a Sean-shaped blur, but I guess he feels my gaze on his back, or maybe he smells the smoke, because he turns around.

"I disturbed you; I'm sorry," he says.

"No; I was awake." I'm walking across the big room, yeah, feet, what are you thinking, and I get close to him and he just waits. He has the remote and he waits. I realize I am holding the cigarette in one hand and the Evian bottle in the other and it's awkward and I realize that I was actually, certainly, walking over there to hug him, just like I had the right, just like I always could, just like I used to. Well, fuck. There's the last of it; the last of the denial, over the falls like that poor stupid fuck Boromir. Here I am in the middle of the night in a plush fancy hotel room in Vienna, fancy and new and stocked with every convenience the efficient German mind can imagine with my Sean, my tragic perfect professional Sean with the biggest heart I ever knew, bigger than Samwise, makes Samwise look like an amateur in the sacrifice department and certainly in the torn-in-two department. Fuck.

I stand there and watch the cigarette and Sean stands there, too. He was the one who had to go through the divorce, damn it. Yet he was the one who called me. He fucking called me and I, up until this exact moment, was enjoying pretending it was a deal. It was a movie. Yeah.

I look for an ashtray. There isn't one. I stand there, stupidly blinking at my clove, and I poke it down into the Evian bottle. It hisses and goes dead. I keep staring at it. Sean is moving. He steps forward and gently takes the bottle out of my hand. I look up and he is in focus, then blurry again as he moves away and puts the bottle on an end table. There is a coaster. A blurry white coaster on the dark smooth wood.

He stands there, half turned away from me, looking at my cigarette in the bottle, and I don't want him to be so blurry, so I step forward until I can bring him into focus. I'm probably too close. He doesn't move. He is perfectly still.

"Me -- what a coward," I say.

He looks at me. Yea! Yeah, cowardly. I am shaking. I put a thumbnail to my mouth. He stands there and looks at me. He is smiling.

"This was all Orli's idea," he says, like it's gonna absolve us, and he closes the small distance and puts his arms around me.

It's ... well, "shattering" is a very melodramatic work, all right? "Clingy" is something I do not do. I'm not kidding. I lean into him, feeling all of him. We've got our standard-issue guy sleepwear thing happening -- old t-shirts and older boxers -- and the thin material makes a very flimsy barrier against his warmth, the solid curve of the muscles in his back and sides, the soft night smell of his neck. Um. I'm not doing a movie deal any more. Whatsoever. Without forethought, just as my feet wanted to come right across the room to be near him, my arms tighten around his shoulders, my hips nudge and adjust and my feet are interlocking with his feet. I am pressed up against him. Apparently I remember exactly how to do this. All these pieces and parts of me are leading my so-called brain, zooming to where they used to fit, returning to where they belong. I sigh into his neck. It's the middle of the night and we are alone in our hotel room, alone for the first time without adultery, without the necessity of either facing or forgetting just how mean and awful and immoral this is. I feel too light and I hang on tighter. Then -- it's still a reflex -- I feel my old guilt. I feel sad and liable and negligent and sordid. I must have tensed, because his arms tighten.

"It's okay," he soothes. "It's okay." I let out the breath and make my muscles relax again. Then Sean says what I am feeling. "God, you feel good."

"I'm so sorry," I say. It was about all I could say, last year and for a while before that. His touch plunges me right back into the old times of conflict and I feel myself getting angry again -- angry at fate, angry at myself, angry at him for not stopping this. He was older, goddammit. He was the one who was married; he should have known better. These thoughts are like dirtbike trails or wagon ruts, worn into deep grooves in my mind. I feel my hands tightening on his back, the tendons standing out from the skin. This mood is so familiar and so unpleasant, like my cough that makes everyone wince when they hear it because they know it’s from SMOKING, big surprise. Deep ruts of remorse and pain, my old adversaries. I can tell he's listening to me think, even as he feels my skin with his skin, even as his dick stirs against my thigh, even as his hands pet my back. He holds me closer. He's quiet, he doesn't even both to reassure. He quit doing that when he figured out that I was going to end it. First Chris left him, and then me. And he knew I was going to do it before I knew. He watched me work up to it with a sad resignation that made me feel worse than if he had gotten angry.

"I hate feeling like this," I say, and I pull away. He lets me, and if he's hurt now, it's not showing in his face. No, he got so good at hiding things when it was all breaking up around him. I think about another cigarette. Fuck. I turn back and look at him, and step toward him again so that I can pull him into focus. This time he just stands there and waits for me to get my shit together. And you know what? I do. Here we are in the middle of the night in this plush spectacular hotel room that we're not even fucking paying for, free and alone and goddammit. I am not going to waste this. I am not going to throw it away. That would be one more sin against what we had and I have certainly committed enough of those by now. I raise my eyes and look into his. There's not much light, but I can see into his heart. "Let's lie down," I say. "This is making me fucking dizzy."

He gets this "humoring the kid" look that used to make me so furious. It felt patronizing. When we were first working together on _Rings_ it used to egg me on to do something spectacularly actorly or professional, so that I could force him to replace that look with the "I am Elijah's biggest fan since we were both child stars" look. But then I would always feel manipulative. So I attempt to soak up the humoring for the moment. I am trainable. I can change my ways. I look around, thinking, and again he reads my mind. His powers are coming back faster than mine, dammit.

"My bed's closer," he says, and he steps that way and I come with him.

"Yeah, and you probably have the lube all handy, you evil conspirator," I snap, and he turns to me and grabs my arm. It almost hurts and that's good. Hold me tighter, Sean. Hold me so tight you squeeze all the bitterness and guilt right out of me. Hold me so tight that I can't feel what I'm doing to you, to Chris, to the kids. Harder.

"It doesn't have to be like that," he says gently, and his grip on my bicep softens as he says it.

"I know. I'm sorry." Already tonight I hate those words and I want to stop saying them. Just stop. Just erase them from the English language. They sound mechanical, though they are not. They have no solution, no antidote. I throw myself on his bed and burrow into the covers. He is right behind me. He hesitates, but I roll to him and fit us together again, just perfectly, just the best thing, the thing I never found anywhere before or since. The feeling of safety and completion and rest just blooms in me again, like always, and I close my eyes. His arms tighten around me and the silence surrounds us, then starts to expand, and it fills the room and I relax. I am back in Sean's arms.

~~~

I didn't mean to fall asleep. I didn't think I would, after the fit of insomnia and restlessness that made me get up and go to him. But I did, apparently, because now I am awake and it's morning. The bed smells warm and Seanlike and it makes me inhale deeply. He knows I'm awake then because he says, "Good morning, love," and that makes me open my eyes. He's leaning on an elbow, pressed against me down the whole length of his body, and his hand is on my stomach and I've been sleeping snuggled up to him, apparently, under the big puffy feather comforter thing that passes for covers here.

"How long have you been awake?" I demand.

"Oh, awhile."

I slide a hand up through the scruff on his cheek, just touching again. Just soaking him up. The look on his face is so peaceful and happy that it reassures me. Is he over all that? Is he ready for this? Fuck, he must be. Remember, asswipe? He called you. He invited you.

And I came. I'm here.

"I'm here," I say. He's making little circles on my stomach now with his open hand. It almost tickles.

"Too right you are," he says, a throwback, and that hurts, too, but it hurts in a good way. So much between us. We have so much. It presses me, like a weight. So many things we did together, with and to and for each other. I'm sick of sighing. I am smiling. I realize this because he smiles, and I look in his eyes and notice my cheeks are stretching painfully. Okay then. I reach further around, cupping the back of his head, feeling how perfectly his skull with its short soft hair rounds into my palm. I pull his head down, but I don't have to pull much because he's just going with the pressure, coming down for the kiss. The kiss that I know, suddenly, that he wanted at the airport but didn't take. The kiss I have never stopped wanting to give him, no matter what. No matter anything.

His mouth is soft and wet, and I don't know who does what, but it's open and deep immediately. His lips are 90 degrees to mine, and so I can mouth his cheek and the bit of stubbly skin and then where his lips widen and soften. He's not pressing down, not a bit. He's sampling me and tasting, warmly licking, and I am lifting my head to get more of him, to get deeper. He makes a strangled sound and rolls closer. He puts a hand against the side of my face and I am having a hard time because I want to keep kissing him but I am relentlessly smiling, too. It's morning in Vienna and I'm here with Sean, who is effing single, thank you Jesus, and we're kissing. In bed.

"Before we get any further," I say, "I have to, uh, go."

He laughs and releases me. I push myself out of bed and get to the toilet, lights too bright, tile too white. I find I am mentally reviewing the previous day, wondering about logistics and about planning ahead for sex, but you know what? That is just not gonna concern me right now. Right now, I am going back in there -- shaking, flushing, turning off the light -- and the clear soft sunlight from the window shows me that he's lying there with his hands behind his head, lying back on the white pillows, and I'm grinning again because he's clearly taken off all his sleeping underwear while I was in the toilet. He's smiling sheepishly, but through the scruffy beard I can see his color is high. I fold my arms and stand there and I wonder if he'll rear up and grab me. I would like a look at him. Of course I can climb over there and pull down the coverlet, but I somehow want to wait. What will he do?

He waits, and his grin widens, the fucker, and he's always had more patience than I have. But I think of something to even the score. I stand there and stare at him and I drop my hands and grab the hem of my t-shirt and peel it up. He likes that. I can tell because he watches me and, ha, he licks his lips. I fold my arms again. He is still unmoving, his hands behind his head, but I see the tendons in his wrists and I know he is trying to wait. He's trying hard. I grin some more. It feels so great to be wanted. I climb on the end of the bed and crawl to him, staying up on my hands and knees, until I am poised over him and his face is inches from mine.

"You waiting for something, Astin?"

"You have no idea," he mutters, and he pulls his fists out from under his head and grabs me. It's done now -- all the teasing. His hands scoop down, following my ribs, and push off my old boxers, and he's squeezing my butt and kissing me, kissing my mouth and soon moving, along my jaw, down my neck. That makes my eyes roll back in my head and I brace myself, feeling his wet mouth track down, down, lingering in the hollow by my shoulder, and he's rolling me over abruptly and biting his way quickly further down. I snort, almost giggling, it's so ticklish and so fast, but he's got my wrists now, somehow. And all I can do is arch and moan and say, "God," because he takes me in his mouth.

He's moaning, and his hands let go of my wrists and press against my hips, curling and squeezing. It's hard to think. The pleasure is sharp and so immediate. I'm drowning. I clutch at his shoulders. This is great, but it's ... it's not what I want and I'm going to have to get what I want and make him stop or I'm gonna come for him right here. Too soon.

"Baby, baby, wait -- " I push on his cheek, trying to look at him and dizzy with it -- God -- Sean, sucking me, and he eases it out of his mouth and turns his head aside just enough to press his open mouth against my hip. He grabs me with his other hand at the same time, and that's bearable. Just. I cover his hand with mine, willing him to be still and not stroke me. Not yet. I want to get some control back. He raises his face and inches up to press a hard, biting kiss to my old tattoo. I just stare at him -- his creamy skin, his freckles, the narrow waist and cut muscles that he works so fucking hard to keep up. Another sign of stress, I know -- he hasn't been this thin since that weird summer between _Fellowship_ and _Towers_. How do I know this? How do I still remember? But I do. I remember everything now.

"Elijah. My god, my god, Elijah." Now he has tears in his eyes, and he's leaning on one elbow. He lets go of my dick and slides his palm all the way up my stomach and chest, as far as he can reach, and back down. "Look at you. Fucking look at you. You're here." He drops his head next to my dick, hiding his eyes, and shit. He's really crying.

"Sean. Oh, Sean. No." I wiggle down until I can hold him close. He's a mess, holding me tight, his hips involuntarily pressing his heavy erection against me, and I'm all over the place. Sympathy tears starting in my own eyes, but my limbs loving wrapping into him, and of course the dick always has a mind of its own. It's just trying to take over the situation here and it's definitely gonna succeed. But Sean. God. "Baby, it's okay," I say, tightening my arms. "It's all okay now."

He's crying silently, his face against my neck. He raises up and swipes at the tears with the back of his hand. "I know. I'm psycho. It's just..." He cups my face again and kisses me -- a benediction, a connection so strong that I'm lightheaded again. It goes on for long moments -- like a reorienting of our souls, coming together, rushing together again. Christ, how could I have pulled away from this. I am basically half alive, half of myself, when I'm not with him. Nothing fills this in me but Sean. My eyes are closed; I have lost track of everything but his mouth, his tongue, the warmth that is all our skin, pressing together.

"I'm okay," he's saying, the words broken up with kisses. "I'm okay... Just ... tell me. What ... do you want, baby? ... What ... do you want ... right ... now?"

I don't have to say anything. I want him. I'm gone, lost, over the edge, no worries, no nothing, nothing but this need, this drive to crawl into his skin, to join with him, to be him. I push with my hip and turn us so that I'm over him, and I wriggle between his legs, pressing down, pressing against him while I push his thigh, making him move. His legs open willingly.

"Oh god yes," he says. I don't think I could speak. I am watching his face, the line of his jaw and neck as he stretches under me. He's so fucking beautiful. He throws an arm wide. He's not so much in control now, either. "Over -- over there," he manages. "Over there. Suitcase."

I am up and rummaging before he's done speaking. "My Boy Scout," I joke.

"Oh, fuck you," he says, and his mouth is red and he's breathless, looking at me, and he's stroking himself, probably unconsciously, as I dig through his clothes and find the tall container and open it and fling myself back over to him, all at once. I'm in a hurry now, slicking myself, slicking him, hurriedly rubbing with my fingers just a bit, finding out how ready he is, if he's ready at all, and all the while staring into those green eyes. He's trying to keep them open, but he closes them, and his hands crawl up my arms and he arches and his movement presses my fingers deeper into him.

"Come on, baby. God," he says, and okay. His legs are around me; his abs are straining and I'm there, I'm almost there, and oh fuck. Oh God. I make it slow; I have to. I must. Sean. _Sean_ It's easy; it's fine. He's pushing back now, matching what I do, and he says, "Only you. Only you," and he says it over and over while we move together. There are still tears, and I don't want to lose it, but I am. There're words of love, and cries, and something like snarls, and another big fall is rushing up for me and I'm coming and coming and collapsing.

I work on getting my breath back, easing aside from his skin, now just burning hot and sweaty -- God, I had forgotten how warm he gets, my furnace, my heater -- and he's still hard. Well. I curl down to him and I'm still panting, can't breathe, fucking cigarettes, but I take him in my hand. He's wet and so hard and that's good, to see him go so taut and still, until I can settle my breathing enough to swallow him. It's like a new wave of coming, having him filling my mouth. He moans and moves with me, and it fits, too, it fits so perfectly, like it always did. I love the hot heavy feel of him and I suck him and squeeze him and lose track of time all over again until he comes with a shout, trembling and pulsing and then going still. I can't move. I lie there, face in his hip, holding him, for a long time. When I can drag myself back up to the pillows to look in his eyes again, he's just lying there with his hands over his face.

I burrow against him and around him again. "What is it, baby? What is it?"

He shakes his head and moves his arms to hold me. I put my forehead against his. It's okay now. They can all wait, all those words.

~~~

I wake again in Sean's bed -- _Sean's bed!_ \-- and I can smell coffee. I roll over and he looks up. He has a journal of some kind on his knee. He was writing while I slept. He smiles a little.

"I'll get you some coffee," he says, and before I can argue or complain he's up and gone. I stretch. Fuck. I'm back with Sean. It's real. I know it's real because here he is, naked, climbing back into the big white bed and handing me a mug of black coffee. I sip and everything resumes its proper focus and proportions. I sip more, take a slurping gulp, it's just barely cool enough to, and set it aside so that he can put his head on my shoulder and press against me, like he clearly wants to.

"You know I can't let you go again," he observes. "I don't want to beg, but I will if I have to. You don't have to do the farking movie unless you want to, of course it would be just a total thrill, baby, but I can't lose you again. I have no pride left about this anymore. Please. Tell me..."

I have to interrupt him. "Sean. I'm so sorry for what I did to you. I guess I just better stop saying that, because you know it and it's not going to help at all except to bore you to death, but I am. You know I am."

"Elijah, it's not like it was all your fault. And you know --"

"Shut up. Let me talk. I must have known on some level what I was coming here to do. I didn't want to admit it until last night, but I must have known." He raises up to look at me. "I love you. But that's not nearly enough. I love you and I can't be without you either. It's not living, not really, unless I'm with you. And that won't ever make up for the damage I did -- _we_ did," I amend hastily, to keep him from breaking in to share the blame again. "But not even that seems adequate. The guilt just about killed me, but to be apart from you was just..." I shake my head. I don't want to go back there, be that alone, that... bereft. Not until one of us is dead. For sure. "It's just... I'm just, yours, Sean. I belong to you." More tears well up in his eyes and he pulls me to him. "Stop crying, you incredible romantic sweetheart of a guy. You're going to make me cry and that won't do at all. Not at all." I hold him for a minute, basically sitting still and refusing to cry. "More coffee," I demand, and that makes him laugh, though the tears are still streaming. He turns away and as I get my cup, I see he has one, too. He clinks my mug with his.

"To us," he says.

"And to your movie," I say.

"Fuck the movie," he says. "I have what I want, now."

"But I don't want to fuck the movie," I kid him. "I want to act in it."

He's drinking as I say it, and then that grin cracks his face again and awakens all his beautiful, cheerful crinkles. He puts down his cup and pulls me in, coffee and all.

"Okay then," my Sean says. "Okay."


End file.
